Chapter 12 #2
“I’ve been waiting all morning to do that,” he breathes against my cheek.
I let a smile curve out of me. “Then why’d you stop?”
He answers by cupping the back of my head, voice so low I feel it more than hear it. “I wanted to make sure you’d remember it.”
We move together slowly because we can, because we learned the night before that time is a luxury the world rarely gives us twice.
Clothes peel away like armor, then like apologies.
Hands learn the geography of old hurts and new wants with the same tenderness.
Fingers trace the edges of scars and map them into forgiveness.
We laugh between breaths, small, incredulous sounds, the kind you make when survival tilts into grace.
When Carter enters me, it’s like it’s the first time again. My walls stretch around his shaft, squeezing him tight. He pulls his hips back and drives forward. A moan escapes my throat, and Carter is there to breathe it in.
“That’s right, Wildcat. Give it all to me.”
He pistons his hips back and forth, harder and faster, until my world starts spinning and my orgasm takes over. I cry out in a moment of ecstasy, and Carter joins, shouting my name as he comes.
We lay together, a mess of sweaty limbs and harsh breathing. I wouldn’t trade this peace for anything right now. As the sound outside the window grows louder, the spell breaks. We stay close anyway, like two people holding something fragile and dangerous at once.
For two days, we shower in staccato bursts, sleep in broken stretches, make love for hours, and argue twice about passwords. Carter insists his entropy is fine, and I insist password123 is a crime.
The safehouse begins to feel domestic in a crooked, dangerous way. French checks in twice a day. Once to make sure we’re not dead, and once to gossip about the ladies and the Man Candy hanging around the clubhouse.
Divine keeps sending encrypted updates through my cell until my phone buzzes like a nervous animal. Every ping from her tablet feels like a fuse tightening.
“Morning, sugar. Or is it afternoon?” French purrs through the line.
“Barely,” I say, stirring instant coffee with a pen. “Carter stole the last real spoon.”
She laughs, the sound bright over the static. “So tell me… what’s our favorite ex-Marine doing while you pretend not to stare at him?”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” she says without missing a beat. “Tall, broody, built like a sin you can’t confess. What’s not to stare at?”
“You’re impossible.” I roll my eyes and French laughs.
“I’m right. You sound lighter, Vic. Like maybe you stopped punishing yourself for breathing.” Her line turns quiet like she said something she shouldn’t have.
I let the silence sit with me. “You always this sentimental?”
“Only when I smell love brewing. Tell Soldier Boy I said keep his boots off the couch.”
On another laugh, French hangs up, and I look at Carter. Sure enough, his boots are propped on the couch. I shake my head and set my phone on the table.
Allura calls later in the night, the kind of call that carries command even across bad reception. “Divine says you’re still breathing. Good. Keep it that way.”
“That your pep talk?” I ask.
“The only one you get. Look, I trust you. But grief has a way of making people stupid. Don’t let that happen.”
“It’s not grief,” I lie.
“Then be sure. If this thing with Bishop is real, it needs to make you smarter, not reckless. Bring me something I can use, Treasurer. And bring yourself home.”
“Always do.”
“Liar.” Click.
Sloane doesn’t call, she shows up. She makes an appearance at the back door of the safehouse two nights later, all no-nonsense and coiled danger, hair braided tight, eyes that’d trained the sea to be obedient. Carter pretends to sleep on the couch and fails.
“He’s trouble,” she says after one look.
“So am I,” I shoot back.
“That’s what worries me. Two fires too close together don’t make warmth. They make ash.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask.
She studies the room, mugs, guns, the way the sheets are folded, because we’re halfway decent at pretending, and says, “Allura’s right to trust you. But if he crosses you, I won’t hesitate.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.
As she leaves, she whispers in Carter’s direction, “You hurt her, soldier, I’ll feed you to the sharks.”
Without opening his eyes, he answers, “Duly noted.”
Sloane smirks. “I hope that is.”
Night with Carter crystallizes into small, true things. He oils a gun in the low light while I pretend to read Divine’s decrypted files. He looks up and says the most disarming thing. “You. And him. How you look when you say his name.”
“Alex’s always in the room somewhere,” I say.
“I don’t want to erase him,” he replies. “Just… make sure you know you’re allowed to have something after.”
That is the kind of honesty that feels like currency. I cross the room and take the oil rag from his hand because touching is easier than answering. “I know. I’m not made of glass.”
“No. You’re made of iron and bad coffee.”
“Better than rust.” I laugh.
His fingers brush mine like punctuation, deliberate and grounding, and for the first time in a very long time, I allow myself to breathe into something that isn’t only a ledger or a fight.
By dawn, the burn-map Divine sends pings green across my phone: routes, dates, shell names—a pattern that looks like a throat we can slit. Carter leans over the screen, quiet, efficient. “Two sites in South Central. One near Vernon. Emerge Auditing owns all three on paper.”
“That’s our entry,” I reply.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure. I stopped questioning being part of the equation a long time ago.”
He nods. “Then let’s go find the truth.”
“Just another day at the office.”
“Except our office comes with bullets.”
“Perks of the job.”
He reaches out and brushes his thumb across my knuckles, a small, ridiculous ritual we both let stand for whatever gravity it offers.
That night, we pack, check guns, and load routes into our heads. Divine’s voice purrs through the line, delighted and vicious: “Alright, my lovely felons. Time to audit a monster.”
I slip my cut over my shoulders. Carter slings his pack, breathes deep like a man steadying a storm. He gives me a look that almost cracks into a smile. “You ready, Wildcat?”
“Always,” I answer.
We step into the night, carrying the promise of violence and something dangerously close to hope.